Benedict
by cillabub
Summary: Quite AU. The adventures of Brother Miquel Combeferre. Warnings for future EnjolrasCombeferre slash, some probable sacrilege, and Lord knows what else.
1. First Vows

**Author's note: This is an odd AU set of Amis that have been on my mind lately. The time period is shifted to circa 1788, right before the French Revolution and the First Republic, and Miquel Combeferre, Jean Prouvaire, and Gustave Bahorel are Benedictine monks. Enjolras, emphatically, is not. Other than that, I haven't quite worked out the universe yet. Inspired, perhaps, by Umberto Eco's _Name of the Rose_…?

This one is in Combeferre's POV.

*****************************

I don't know when I first began to avoid the novices.

Perhaps it was when I first took my vows and realized that my life was changing almost as quickly as I was. It wasn't that I no longer wanted to teach Jehan his Greek or philosophize with him long into the night. He's very dear to me, but he is a child, after all.

Oddly enough, the most difficult part is to convince myself that I am now Brother Miquel and an adult in the eyes of God. When Father Rémi kissed me on the mouth—as Benedictine brothers and elders ordinarily greet each other—rather than on the forehead as is appropriate for novices, I felt so...old. I spend hours trying to understand why I was put on this earth and, little fool that I am, I can think of nothing but the feeling of being kissed on the mouth. I don't know whether to interpret this as a sign that I was born to be a Benedictine or as something that I should be mentioning during confessional.

Brother Gustave only laughs at me when I ask him what to expect from my life as a brother. He's been here at Saint-Germain-des-Prés since I was only a child in swaddling clothes playing with my Basque grandmother's rosary beads. He's a great bear of a man, with a hairy face and a joyous, booming laugh that seems to rattle the windows in their frames, but he makes me a little uneasy. When I'm whispering something to Jehan and Gustave sweeps by and gives me that knowing smile and a wink, he always makes me feel as though I'm committing some nameless sin; he strikes me as the last sort of man I'd expect to have devoted his life to Grace.

I'm going to ask Father Rémi to give me his blessing to do missionary work out in the city proper. I love the abbey, as I love Jehan, but I feel suffocated, and the Lord knows there is much need for emphasizing the Word outside these walls rather than within them.

It's been years since I've seen a human being without a habit and a cowl.

I've known monks before who could not bear the heavy strain of their vows; their restlessness drove them to madness and their roiling blood to unspeakable sin. I pray that I may never be so torn.

There is nothing, indeed, that I fear more.


	2. Departure

"Are you being sent outside the walls?" Young Jehan was following closely at Combeferre's heels, picking up his habit's hem as he walked. "Brother Miquel?"

"I am," Combeferre replied gently, drawing his hood up over his hair as they stepped outside the scriptorium into the drizzling rain.

"Why won't Father Rémi let me come with you?" The boy splashed through the puddles in his pursuit of Combeferre across the grounds. "I'm sixteen this summer."

"I think he's just waiting until this whole nasty business with the Bishop blows over before he sends great droves of missionaries beyond our walls, into territory in which the abbey can't protect them." Combeferre shoved against the heavy, iron-clad door to the dormitory hall. Once inside, he lowered his hood, shook out the damp curls of his hair, and made his way down the hall, tucking his hands into the voluminous sleeves of his dark habit. Just before he reached his door, Jehan darted between him and his room, his novice's robes tripping him slightly.

"Miquel...You aren't really leaving, are you?" His eyes were dark in the deep shadows of the hall.

"I am," Combeferre said firmly, taking the boy by the shoulders with controlled gentleness and shifting him away from the doorway.

"Without me?" the novice asked quietly, his smooth cheeks looking a bit pinched with unhappiness.

Having opened the door and already being over the threshold of his cell, Combeferre half-turned to look at his young protégé. "Jehan, a man walks with God when he comes to understand and practice patience. When you turn seventeen, you will have your opportunity to consecrate the rest of your life to cultivating the virtues of a Benedictine."

"Then I shan't have any freedom until I take my vows...! Miquel...?"

"Yes. Freedom is found in God alone," the older boy said, moving slowly to his pallet and sinking down onto it. "But you needn't wish your life away, waiting for your adulthood. I wish sometimes that I was yet a novice."

Jehan gave a stiff little smile. "So you're going to tell me that too, now? All the old men say that I ought to be happy as a child. They don't understand...And now you don't understand either."

Combeferre watched impassively as the boy ran from the doorway, and he listened as the soft boot soles slapped angrily against the stone of the stairs.

****************************

The rain had become dismal when Combeferre left the dormitory once more, unsure of when he'd next be returning. Light still shone from several of the barred windows on the top floor, curfew being in a little less than half an hour, and as Combeferre's eyes lingered on Jehan's window, a small face appeared there and stared back at him for a single, agonizing second.

Combeferre gave a weak wave to that face and turned his steps towards the abbey's main gate.


	3. Religion over Supper

It really began in a bistro, as most such things do.

I was dining on fish, if I recall correctly, when they sat across from me on the long table. The black-haired one noticed me immediately, whispered something to his companion, then crossed himself mockingly. The other was more serious—and fair, terribly fair—and ignored both me and his friend.

I watched them out of the corner of my eye, more out of curiosity than malice. After all, it had been some years since I'd come in contact with the non-ecclesiastical population, and they intrigued me, even if they weren't very polite.

After some time of silence, the black-haired young man cleared his throat with noisy exaggeration, and said, half to me, half to his companion, "Don't you find the institutions of the Church to be a bit obsolete in today's modern world?"

"Must we talk religion at supper, Courfeyrac?" the younger man said, presuming that he was the one being addressed and pulling a long-suffering face. He glanced across the table, his gaze focused more on my scapular than on my eyes, and he said with apologetic stiffness, "Forgive my friend his manners, or lack thereof." It wasn't a pleasant tone of voice, but at least it was courteous.

"Don't worry about it," I replied, twisting my rosary in my fingers as I spoke to him. He was an oddly intimidating individual, despite his obvious youth. "I am afraid I do not know much of what you call 'today's modern world.' I am only newly left the abbey."

The dark young man brightened a bit. "You've abandoned the Church, then?"

"Oh no, brother." I gave him a little smile. "I am a missionary now. Please tell me your names."

The fair youth raised his head, his blond hair shining across his forehead. "D'Enjolras," he said coolly. His friend snorted, presumably derisive of any response to my missionary work. The young fellow ignored him and added, "I am Tristan d'Enjolras and this is my cousin, de Courfeyrac."

"Just plain Courfeyrac," the black-haired one said with a touch of condescending congeniality. "I don't believe in these aristo conventions."

"Conventions have nothing to do with it," the blond said with a shrug. "My name is d'Enjolras, always has been throughout the ages, and that is that." He glanced at me. "You have not offered your name, Brother."

"Brother Miquel," I told him, then added as a kind of afterthought, "Miquel Combeferre, although the family name is one I have not heard used in quite some time."

D'Enjolras watched me carefully, his eyes squinted a little. "You shall only be Combeferre to me, for I fear that I have little love for your Church's institutions, even if I do object to my cousin's ridiculing you for it."

I bowed my head over my plate, determined not to let them see how much they irritated me. De Courfeyrac—or rather, Courfeyrac—reached suddenly across the table, grabbing me by the wrist.

"You're the first monk I've ever talked to," he said with an odd laugh. "Tell me, does the chastity bother you awfully?"

I think that even as he asked it, I was struggling surreptitiously to free my hand from his grip; by the time my brain had finished processing the question, I think I was so disgusted that I actually shoved at his hand with my free one in some panic to make him stop. D'Enjolras leaned over and took hold of both of our wrists, pulling us apart as he said in a very low voice, "Stop it, de Courfeyrac." His eyes were an unfathomable dark blue, like the depths of the sea.

Finding myself released, I shot to my feet, my face burning. I took the passing waitress by the arm, pressing some money into her palm for my supper. As I was throwing on my cloak over my habit, d'Enjolras said quietly, rising to his feet with feline fluidity, "May I speak with you, Brother?" At my negative shake of the head, he added quickly, "Outside, alone, of course."

"No, I—no." I made my escape, out into the muggy darkness of the streets. He caught up to me less than a block from the bistro.

"I beg your pardon, most humbly. My cousin is an idiot," he said, his hair shining dimly in the light of the streetlamps, and I raised my hood against the dampness in the air and against his beauty.

"It imports nothing," I said, gathering my cloak and habit closer to my body, despite the heat. "Please let me be."

"Won't you accept even the most awkward of apologies?" D'Enjolras asked me. "Isn't forgiveness an essential virtue for the children of God?"

I stopped in my tracks, turning to face him. He was a couple of footsteps behind me, and he stopped as well, staring back at me. "A divine reminder," I mused aloud. "I thank you sir, and forgive you as well, although it is not you who should be apologizing."

He seemed to swallow his shame. "He's a republican, I'm afraid—quite a vehement one. Anti-clergy."

"Is there rebellion stirring in the city?" I asked in surprise. This was not at all the kind of thing of which we received news within the abbey walls.

"The ashes of it," he said, shifting his weight onto his other foot and stepping towards me until we'd drawn even. "If I had advice to offer you, it would be to return to your abbey as soon as you can. If things continue to progress as they have been, come springtime you won't be safe anymore out in the city proper."

"Can you really believe it will go so far?" My head was spinning. "No revolt in recent memory has ever touched this country with so much violence that even the Church has suffered slights."

"This time it's different," d'Enjolras said, in a voice that made his words sound eerily like a sinister promise. His lowered his eyes to meet mine before turning back towards the bistro. "This time you might not be safe even within your abbey."

I watched him go with a growing uneasiness in the pit of my gut, but nothing yet akin to real dread.


	4. A Challenge

The streets could be awfully quiet in the early morning, the mist rising off the paving stones creating an ancient atmosphere that was both charming and foreboding, at least to me. My bed, which was positioned immediately beneath the window that faced the street, was chilly at that hour, and I rose from it without much regret. The boarding house that I had made my residence had been recommended to Father Rémi for my use, as it also housed several other missionaries from monasteries in the Parisian suburbs. The building wasn't anything special, but it was a home to me for many months, and I nearly grew to love it.

This particular morning, as I pulled on my habit, I was struck more than usual by the coarseness of the fabric where it scraped across the tender skin of my shoulders and my chest. I was, one must recall, some mere twenty-one years of age at the time, and still possessed of the youthful freshness of appearance that brought me a good deal of unsought attention. I shook off the odd sensation in the pit of my stomach and donned my belt and scapular.

The street was deserted, the _quartier_ was deserted, the whole world was deserted. Until I rounded a corner and approached the Latin Quarter, I was half-afraid that I was the last man on earth and wondered whether perhaps the Apocalypse had come and I had slept through it.

And then, of course, _he_ was there. And God said, let there be light.

He was with a man I didn't recognize, a pair of men actually, but fortunately not his dreadfully rude cousin. I crossed the square with the hope of escaping him, but my black habit tends to make stealth in the daylight hours difficult, if not impossible. He turned to me with a flash of bright hair.

"Hi there, Combeferre!"

I ignored him, pretending, perhaps, not to recognize that name anymore.

"Combeferre," he said, standing right beside me now, "it's awfully unkind of you to flee my presence as though I was the Antichrist himself. And just when I thought we were connecting at some level."

"Connecting?" I looked at him and wished I hadn't. He was beautiful. "You threatened me indirectly. Should I be glad to see you?"

He smiled tightly. "I didn't threaten you, Brother. I was being thoughtful and warning you against something that I fear shall come to pass."

"But you want it to come…!" I said softly, even as his friends approached us.

He glanced at them, then back at me. Scratching at the back of neck, hidden behind the thick curtain of longish hair that spilled in waves to his shoulders, he said, "Gentlemen, this is Brother Miquel. Combeferre, these are my fraternal brothers, Joly and Lesgle."

I gave them a shallow bow, which each reciprocated in turn, and turned to go again. He caught me by the wide sleeve of my habit, then took hold of my scapular to ensure my capture.

"Don't go yet. Please tell me you'll dine with me tonight." He tilted my chin upwards with his free hand, much to my chagrin, and forced me to meet his eyes.

__

Let me go, for God's sake, I thought, trembling from the roots of my hair to my toenails. "I will not dine with you, M. d'Enjolras," I said with forced calmness.

"Please?" His voice was no plea, but it wrung my heart nevertheless.

I slipped from his grasp and said in stiff Latin, with as much dignity as I could muster, "All right. All right…Where shall I meet you, and at what time?"

He smiled, a swift puff of triumph whispering over his face, and replied in his flawless schoolboy's Latin, "There is a café called Musain, here in the Latin Quarter. Come to the common room around eight and ask after Enjolras—mind you, _Enjolras_, not d'Enjolras, understand?"

I had never been invited to an underground revolutionary meeting, but I had the distinct feeling that if I had, it might have been something like this. I stared at him for a long moment, then replied quietly, in French, "Go with God, Enjolras." 

As I turned and walked past him down the street, I heard him call after me in that cool, demanding tone, "Don't forget, eight o'clock."


	5. The Back Room

There wasn't any reason on God's green earth why I should have been standing there blocking the doorway of a café named Musain at eight o'clock that night. In fact, I had meant not to, but the bells of a nearby church were striking eight, and there I was, wondering if this transgression was part of God's omniscient plan.

The serving girl was a plain sort of wench, and she blended perfectly into the café's atmosphere; I didn't even notice her until she was practically upon me, gazing at me with something like suspicious curiosity.

"A table, messieur?" she asked, balancing a tray in one hand and wiping her sweat-grimed forehead with the sleeve of her other arm.

"No," I said, and I stepped decisively out of the doorway and into the room. There was no turning back now. "I'm looking for a man, and he told me to inquire after him here."

"The name?" She seemed even more interested now.

"Enjolras," I said smoothly.

Her look suddenly became very hard, and I nearly flinched under its weight. "Enjolras, you say?" When I nodded, she gestured sharply. "This way, messieur."

I could feel the eyes of the other patrons in the common room burning through the back of my scapular, and I knotted and unknotted my fingers nervously as I followed her through the crowded room and down a small hallway beside the kitchens. Upon reaching the delta at the far end of the hallway, which opened upon a blank little door, she shook her head and left me without a word. I knocked.

The door cracked, black eyes stared out at me. I would have been utterly calm if they had been any color but that—deep, pure black. Black hair as well.

"Oh, I see," came the accompanying voice, with a touch of irony in its tone. "Come in, Brother."

As the door swung open, I found myself facing a large, lonely room, populated by half a dozen men, at most. The man immediately before me was smirking at me, and I recognized Courfeyrac.

"Enjolras, your lover's here," he called to one of the corner tables. The entire room turned to look at me, including d'Enjolras himself, who rose from his chair with a growl. I closed my eyes.

"That's sick, de Courfeyrac," d'Enjolras's voice rang back coldly. I heard the scraping of chair feet on the wood of the floor, then a hand descended upon my shoulder with a vengeance. "Come in, Combeferre," was my instruction.

I opened my eyes, forcing a smile for d'Enjolras, who stood at my shoulder now. The door slammed to behind me, and he led me forward with a glare at his cousin.

"I'm not interrupting anything, hn?" I said breathlessly, glancing around me at the others in the room. They seemed to be young, but not particularly revolutionary; perhaps, I reasoned, I had been unfairly expecting them to bear large signs proclaiming them to be traitors to the Crown.

"Just the Revolution," Courfeyrac said with a disarming smile, moving back to his table and flopping into his chair. The young man named Lesgle punched his arm lightly in vague reproof.

"Shut up," d'Enjolras said, his tone wearily irritated. To me he asked in an undertone, "Why aren't you happy?"

It was such a sudden question that I hadn't time to wonder whether he'd been referring to the frown that I hadn't realized I was wearing, or whether he was simply wondering in general. "What?" I said in surprise as he led me to a chair at his table.

"You aren't happy at Saint Germain-des-Prés, are you." He gave me an oblique look as he alighted gracefully on his seat, without a hair falling out of place. Extraordinary creature, really.

"I am content," I said carefully. I didn't know whether I trusted him enough to say more than that.

His eyes glistened blue as they traced my rosary where it lay across my chest. "You feel incomplete. There's a void in you that neither Our Lady nor Our Father can fill, and you feel guilty because of it."

I bit my tongue against a flood of reflexive denials and, understanding that I was in the company of a painfully plain-spoken man, I chose a forthright approach instead. "That's true."

He gazed at me thoughtfully, resting his chin in his palm and that elbow on the tabletop. "I saw it in your face the moment I met you." He abruptly shifted back in his chair, folding both arms across his chest. "If you're unhappy, why don't you leave?"

"I have promised my life to a stronger force than my own happiness," I said staunchly.

"I know," he replied, then fell silent. After what seemed like a lifetime, he said, "I'm quickly becoming fond of you, Combeferre, although I can't even say why; after all, I hardly know you, and my affections, I'm sure, do not interest you in the slightest. Nevertheless, I believe every man has a right to happiness; that is why, indeed, France must become a Republic. You are not an exception, Combeferre. That is why I've asked you here tonight—to inform you of my intentions on all counts, lest you think me less—or more—than what I am."

I could do nothing but stare stupidly at him. He took that as a sign to continue.

"First, I suppose, for the political factors. The monarchy must be overthrown. You see the necessity for it, of course, if there is to be freedom. There will be a redistribution of wealth, and the Estate system, I fear, must be overhauled and re-worked—it's anything but helpful at this point in time. The clergy must be dispelled and no, don't"—he raised one slender hand to stop me as my mouth automatically opened in protest—"don't speak until I've finished. The abuses of the clergy are just as grave as those of the nobility, and there will be no need for priests in the Utopia of the future." He shifted slightly in his seat, lacing his fingers together on the tabletop. "And of course, there are my intentions on a personal level." He gazed hard at me, and I felt ill. "I want to see you again," he said slowly. "I've already told you that I don't know why I feel compelled to seek you out. I wish I did understand."

I avoided his eyes and he shifted his weight again in his chair.

"I wouldn't say that I feel anything unnatural," he went on bluntly. "Not now, anyhow. And I am certain that you are not so naïve that you misunderstand me when I say unnatural, as you have, after all, spent some time in a monastery; these things are far from unheard of there, they say." As I just blinked at him, not quite sure that I was even hearing this, he glanced up at me and gave a small smile. "Are you still awake over there, Combeferre, or has my conversation just lost your interest for the moment?"

"Hn." I gave a very un-dignified grunt, tucking my hands out of sight into the excess fabric of my habit.

"Does that mean that you want me to keep talking, or is that your way of informing me that I am boring you?" His smile widened indulgently.

My eyes flicked to his nervously. "I'm not bored, I'm just a little…unsettled. I hope you don't take it to heart, brother."

"Not accustomed to unfiltered truth, hm?" d'Enjolras asked as he pulled over his plate and poked nonchalantly at the half-finished dinner on it.

"No," I admitted, "I'm not. I'm also not accustomed to discussing vulgar subjects over supper in remote cafés with would-be revolutionaries."

He shook his head, and I looked up to find that his eyes were watching my movements. "Combeferre, don't be angry. You know that I haven't said anything so far that isn't true, even if it hurts."

"You _are_ awfully clever, aren't you." It came out as a sort of hiss, although I felt that I was beginning to understand his bold manner of speaking. His disregard for people's feelings, however, was a bit frustrating.

"There's nothing clever about it," he said starkly. "You're a monk—you know that sexual activity occurs within your walls, no matter how prohibited it might be. Which is part of the reason why the hierarchy of the clergy must be torn down. There is nothing more that the servants of God can do for the people."

I bowed my head as he pronounced this; he'd said it as solidly as he would deliver a death sentence, and to me, indeed, it wasn't so far from one.

"The day may come when you and I will be facing each other from opposing lines of battle." He reached across the table to touch my chin with worn fingertips and a grim little smile. "I wanted you to know before the storm breaks on Paris that I am forever your humble servant, sir, even when my doctrines dictate otherwise."

My eyes found his, and I had the blasphemous thought that perhaps the angels wore his dazzling beauty when they appeared to the shepherds to herald the birth of the Messiah. "What drives you to these doctrines of yours?" I asked, half to myself. "Why would any man sacrifice so much for so little?"

"We aren't so different, you and I," was all he said.


	6. Impressions

It was nearly midnight by the time I escaped the café Musain. D'Enjolras had managed to frighten me half to death about most things that I had taken as a given in my life, and I do not think I could have borne another fifteen minutes of it.

He was the most oddly attractive man I'd ever met, and not simply in the physical sense. He had the rough sort of charisma that would-be dictators dreamt of, and his voice was hypnotic; being, I judged, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, he was not even yet in his prime. What a monstrously impossible child he must have been.

I noticed my landlady's queer expression as she watched me slip into my building at half-past twelve, and I could do nothing in my shame but turn away. She must have been thinking all manner of vile things about me and my nighttime activities, just as d'Enjolras had said—monks copulate, monks masturbate, monks commit sodomy, monks are disgusting creatures, just like every other wretch crawling this earth. I had the sudden, terrifying notion that she would write to Father Rémi and tell him that I was keeping a secret lover and he would then force me to return to Saint Germain.

If I'd known what people might think of me, why on earth had I kept that appointment at Musain? What did I owe that ragtag bunch of rebels, much less their little smooth-faced child-chief? He might be enchanted with me, but I was not so with him, was I. No indeed. And such evening rendez-vous would not be tolerated any further—I had no connection with these rabble-rousers, and only trouble would come of any bond I could form with them.

His eyes, nevertheless, were branded into my mind, and I spent the night cocooning myself tighter into my blankets in an effort to ignore burning blue.


	7. Festival of St Maur

The festival of Saint Maur was always an occasion to remember at Saint Germain-des-Prés.

It was the middle of January, and I was struggling through the snowy streets with a clear intention in mind. Father Rémi had summoned me home to the abbey for the festival, without mentioning in his correspondence whether or not I would be permitted to return to the outside world once the celebrations had finished. I had done nothing shameful during my stay outside abbey walls, had dutifully completed all my choir rites, taken my holy sacrament, confessed myself each day to a priest at l'Eglise Saint-Sulpice; I didn't see any reason why my missionary work should be suspended. Nevertheless, this had been the tone underlying the innocuous words of the letter—that I might not be returning to the city proper.

As the imposing walls of the abbey rose before me, I passed an acquaintance of mine, a lay brother, leaving by the main gate.

"God bless you, Brother Giles," I murmured to him as we met, and Feuilly smiled broadly in return, the rough skin around the corners of his eyes crinkling in pleasure.

"Brother Miquel!" he cried, peering into the shadows of my hood. "By the Father, it's been some time since we've seen you about the abbey. Returning for the feast day?"

"I'm afraid so," I said, shrugging off the hood. "I've been summoned home, and although I am eager to show proper reverence to dear Saint Maur, I wish I'd been allowed to remain at large."

"Enjoying the outside world, Brother Miquel?" he laughed. "It is quite different from the cloisters, I suppose."

I blushed. "Th-that's not what I meant...! I only said that—well…Yes, it is very different, isn't it."

He bit his lip to keep in more laughter, and I quickly bid him farewell.

"Good luck to you, my brother," he called jocularly as he left down the path I'd just traveled.

Once inside the gate, I went immediately to Father Rémi's chambers to officially report my arrival. To my surprise, he was waiting for me.

"Brother Miquel." He rose from the chair in the corner and kissed my mouth in greeting. "Welcome home, my son."

I bowed deeply, folding my hands into my sleeves. "Thank you, Father."

"I am glad you have come. You have been sorely missed in our community here at Saint Germain." I could feel him examining me, _checking for any sign of possible corruption_, my neurotic mind screamed.

"I have missed Saint Germain, Father," I replied dutifully, although I wasn't quite certain that that was the absolute truth. Ah well; I'd have to remember that at my next confession.

"Very well. Vespers is nearly upon us, so I suggest that you get some rest before you rejoin your brothers at choir duties."

"Yes, Father." I bowed again. "Thank you, Father."

"God bless you, Miquel."

I couldn't get out quickly enough. There was something about that dark-paneled room of Father Rémi's that bothered me, besides the fact that the dust coating everything in there stirred up my sinuses with unbelievable ferocity.

Having reached the courtyard outside, the last thing I saw before a gigantic sneeze claimed me was ineffable joy on Jehan's face.

"Miquel!" he squeaked, and I glanced up, wiping my nose on my sleeve with all the shiftiness of a naughty novice. "Miquel!"

He threw himself upon me, despite my attempts to calm him. As he squeezed me breathless, I stared helplessly over his shoulder at an elderly brother who was shaking his head at us with piously intense disapproval. Monks were not encouraged to have extensive contact of any form with the novices—although Jehan and I had managed to remain friends for years now—and physical contact was a nearly unclean act, particularly when performed in public. But Jehan was only a boy, and raised by heathens as well, so I personally believe that God would allow the child a bit of latitude when it came to proper manners.

Besides, he looked so tearfully happy that had God questioned his behavior, I might certainly have put in a good word for him.

"Miquel, Miquel," he gasped out. "Miquel, I love you, I've missed you—why didn't you write me? You won't go away from me ever again, mind."

"Silly boy!" I exclaimed, shaking him with gentle remonstration. "Where do you think you live—in a melodrama? Speaking of such things—imagine, me, a monk, writing to a novice! Imagine Father Rémi's face!"

He laughed through his tears, pressing his smooth child's cheek against the slightly more weathered skin of mine. "Miquel, Miquel…I don't care what he says—I shall always love you."

"You will care, once you've taken your vows. You must love God first and foremost, Jehan. And after Him, you shall not love one man, but all mankind."

He grinned impishly. "Oh, but I do love God, Miquel! And this feast shall be the best in memory! I've been elected to give the opening hymn, you know," he added, winking at me proudly.

"Silly boy," I muttered again with no small measure of fondness. "I'm sure it'll be beautiful."

We wandered towards the dormitories, Jehan recounting the major events of monastic life for the past few months; I told him of the city outside the abbey, the soaring cathedrals with the stone beasts crawling their walls, the girlish young students with their Latin books and their tight trousers, the ladies of dubious reputation draped over street intersections everywhere, and a thousand other distinct markers of the Paris that I'd come to know.

"Ladies," he murmured in wonder, shaking his head and folding his hands into his sleeves. "Imagine: ladies!" Spoiling his own picture of pure childlike perfection, he then tripped pathetically on the hem of his novice's habit, nearly sending himself sprawling into the snow.

I took hold of his arm as he gained his feet again, and twisted my face into a stern expression, an unwitting imitation of Father Rémi. "_Disreputable_ ladies," I emphasized.

He ducked his head, and I had the impression that he was laughing at me. "All right then," he said with deceptive innocence, "young men. Imagine: young men!" Gazing at me with piercing dark eyes, he said slyly, "You didn't meet any, did you?"

"Prostitutes?!" I sputtered.

"No, students!" Jehan laughed outright now, his pale hair swirling in the bitingly cold breeze.

"Students?" I stopped walking, diverting my full attention to thinking. _Had I met any? Ah yes, of course_. "Yes."

"Beautiful?" he asked, again in that tone of voice that oiled over my ears, leaving behind only an unpleasant sensation.

"…Yes." I stroked my rosary thoughtfully as we entered the dormitory building. _The bells for vespers should be striking any moment now_, I thought anxiously. _He'll have to leave my company and go to supper. Only hold off his questions for a few more minutes_.

He followed me down the hall, stomping already-melting snow from his soft boots. "Really? Any in particular? What was his name?"

"Jehan, stop." I turned to him abruptly, grabbing him by the shoulders with a calm sort of roughness. "At best, this is idle gossip, at worst, heresy." I released him when he shrank away from me in shock. "Lust is a grave sin," I continued, undeterred, "and the decision to engage in it is a conscious and wicked impulse. I beg you to have some piety or, if you lack it, at least to adopt the appearance of it. We are servants of God, held to higher mores than even the average man, and to hear you speak of such things, and in such a manner, makes me frankly disappointed in you."

He stared at me in an interval of hurt silence, during which the bells for vespers could be clearly heard pealing out above the dead snow outside.

It was a good couple of minutes later before I realized that the bells had long ago fallen silent as well. "Go to supper," I said finally, quietly. "We'll have words later, Jehan."

"Aren't you coming--?" he mumbled.

"Go."

Blinking back tears, he left me there, alone again in the dormitory hallway. I turned, almost reluctant to approach the door of my old cell; strange, that only a few months on the outside of it all could transform me so. 

It was the first time I'd ever questioned my choice to take my vows.


End file.
